


willingly exhibit unto them due honour

by stannide



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, M/M, Seijou Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3571544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stannide/pseuds/stannide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A restless prince goes to see his knight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	willingly exhibit unto them due honour

**Author's Note:**

> something quick & silly for seijou week!

It’s a warm, sunny afternoon.  On days like these, Tooru cannot help abandoning his lessons to gaze out of the castle’s sweeping windows.  The green copses in the bailey and the endless blue sky beyond are poignant reminders of his carefree boyhood.  He’d felt invincible then, a scampering child drunk on freedom and ever hankering after the next imaginary quest to face with his childhood companion.  Tooru recalls the young squire, Hajime, as he was in those days, small and scrawny and built like a whip under his rough-hewn clothes.  Even then, Hajime’s scowl had been a fearsome sight to behold, especially so when he’d done poorly at training or been assigned to muck the stables.

The memories, clear and bright in Tooru’s mind, are enough to bring a smile to his face and restlessness to his feet.  It’s not long before Tooru, by every power of persuasion available to him, manoeuvres himself out of his tutor’s clutches for the day.  Clad in the most ragged clothes he can find in his closet (much to the chagrin of his valet), his dark curls free for a time of the princely crown, Tooru makes his way to the yards.

Without all the trappings of pomp and circumstance, the prince is not easily recognised, and his brief excursion proceeds without interruption.  Tooru is always conscious of the image he presents.  The art of kingcraft is a deft manipulation of the perceptions of others.  There is no authority without power, and power is in itself a performance.  If no one is convinced of a man’s power, how can that man be king?  And Tooru _will_ be king; there is no doubt of that.

Tooru shakes his head to clear his thoughts, pivoting on his heel down another long arcade.  Such musings are neither here nor there.  For now, it suffices to be invisible, inconspicuous, more page than prince as he navigates the twisting corridors and heavy throngs of knights.  Though Tooru is unfamiliar with these parts of the castle, the unmistakable melody of steel singing against steel beckons him onward.  Blood rushes fast in his veins, rendering him flushed and short of breath.  His strides are hastier, longer, until at last the sun is upon his skin and the ringing of swords is deafening.

From his place under the stone vault abutting the yard, Tooru takes a deep breath, eyes soaking in the rows of sparring knights.  They are not clad in the gleaming silver of their full plate as he had expected.  This afternoon, they train simply in their hauberks and braces, no less majestic for the lack of armour.  Unlike kings, Tooru understands, knights do not draw their power from tricks of performance.  It is the feral grace of muscle and sinew, tempered by the dictates of chivalry, that grant a knight his right to the sword.  And even to Tooru’s untrained eye, the knights of the kingdom are powerful indeed.

It comes as no surprise given the calibre of their teacher, upon whom Tooru’s gaze finally alights.

It is difficult to reconcile the knight of the present with the squire of Tooru’s memories.  Hajime is on the shorter side for his profession, but built so stocky and sturdy that his height barely signifies.  There is an earthy quality about the man.  Leonine, Tooru thinks, a word that befits the steady weight of Hajime’s gait and the eyes that flash, sharp and dangerous, even now that they rove protectively over his subordinates.  These are eyes that have not gone unsung by the minstrels throughout the land.   _Death be to him that crosses swords and gazes with Sir Hajime the Pillar._  Tooru has heard the tales told even in the great halls of his father’s opulent court.  Easy enough a task to imagine Hajime in full plate, greatsword bearing down against the foe, the long fabric of his cape billowing in the wind.

Heat pools warm and low in Tooru’s stomach.  He bites his lip just as Hajime’s sharp eyes meet his.  Tooru watches those eyes widen in alarm.  But it is a testament to Hajime’s composure that he allows no other indication of his surprise.  There is no interruption even in the knights’ routine.  Hajime nods to a taller knight, whom Tooru can only presume is Hajime’s second.  The taller knight smoothly takes over the reins, barking out orders that Tooru barely hears past the wild thundering of his heart.

For it is he that holds full force of Sir Hajime’s undivided attention now, and it is to him that Hajime walks with a sense of purpose so urgent it makes Tooru weak in the knees.

“Your Highness,” Hajime hisses, reaching out to grab Tooru roughly by the elbow.

“Sir Hajime,” Tooru says.  He pitches his voice breathy and low.  Unmoved, Hajime only continues to lead Tooru back inside the castle.  Tooru pouts.  “What’s with all this ‘Your Highness’ business?”

This, too, goes ignored.  They are turning onto a secluded corner when Hajime finally releases Tooru only to cuff the prince soundly round the head.

“You _idiot_!”  And this, _this_ , Tooru thinks is more like the Hajime he knows.  “What in God’s bloody name do you presume you’re up to?”

“I wanted to see you,” Tooru says.  “Can’t I come see an old friend?”

Hajime scoffs.  “More like you were bored cooped up indoors.”

Though Hajime is scowling, Tooru knows Hajime well enough to see the mirth in his eyes.  Hajime holds himself less stiffly than he did out in the yard.  He is more natural this way, in Tooru’s presence, and Tooru notes this with no small amount of satisfaction.

“Truly,” Tooru says,  “it has been some time since we last spoke.”  He pauses, a show of hesitation so rare that Hajime’s brows rise.  “I’ve missed you.”

Hajime regards Tooru for a long moment.  Tooru stares back evenly, at once refusing to be cowed and relishing the frankness of Hajime’s gaze.  For once, there is no one else about.  They come to a lull in the middle of the corridor, the silence a heavy, tremulous creature between them.  Tooru clenches and unclenches his fists.

Finally, Hajime sighs, rolling his broad shoulders.  “It’s been busy,” he says.  “Training, all that.  I’m, ah, I’m…”  

Between the pair, Tooru is the dissembler.  Hajime has no talent for either deflection or prevarication, and it shows.  Hajime shifts his weight on his feet, looking past Tooru to the wall behind him.

“Well?”  Tooru says.  “Silly knight, have my winsome looks rendered you speechless?”

That does the trick.  Hajime scowls, the dark slashes of his eyebrows furrowing in unveiled irritation.  “Shut up,” he growls, a rough noise that makes Tooru’s fingers itch.  “I’m trying for Kingsguard, you bleeding—”

“Kingsguard?”  Tooru blinks, his jaw falling slack.  “ _Kingsguard?_ ”

It’s the highest honour a knight can attain.  Difficult enough for a knight nobly born, but for Hajime, a man of farmers’ stock, the feat is almost impossible.  Tooru is rudely reminded of why their boyhood friendship had appeared to the court so unseemly in the first place.   _If this boy Hajime were even a baron’s son!_ the wagging tongues had whispered, so much so that the king himself had deigned to establish greater boundaries between prince and squire.

 _A knight now,_ Tooru reminds himself.   _Not a squire._

And just like that, the bitter taste of his recollections gives way to hope.  If Hajime were in the Kingsguard!  Tooru can scarcely begin to consider the possibilities, his mind unravelling in wonderment.  How close Hajime would be to Tooru then.  Near enough that Tooru could see him every day, and touch him, no more sneaking around.  Near enough that he would stand by Tooru’s side on the day that Tooru ascends the throne.  The thought alone makes Tooru shiver.

“Why?”  Hajime sounds angry, disbelieving.  Tooru is abruptly pulled away from the timbre of his thoughts.  “You don’t think I could do it, Your Highness?”

“Don’t call me that.”  But Tooru’s heart is too light for the words to have any real bite.  “You’ve proven your valour thrice over, Hajime.  There is no way they won't consider you.  You—”  Tooru wets his lips, his heart kicking at the way Hajime’s eyes dart to his mouth.  “You have to.”

 _I need you beside me,_ he almost says, but thinks better of it.  Tooru lays his hand on the unyielding ridges of Hajime’s chain mail, stretched wide over Hajime’s chest.  Tooru dallies there, five fingers spread, wishing he could feel more than the cool kiss of metal under his palm.

Hajime does not move Tooru’s hand away.  “The next round of appointments is in three months,” Hajime says.  “I’m doing everything I can, Tooru.”

It is the sound of his name that draws Tooru to the brink.  Tooru leans down, crushing his lips against Hajime’s.  He delights in the warmth and smell of Hajime, sun and sweat and steel, even as he anticipates Hajime’s stern reprimand.  

It never comes.  Hajime’s hands curve around Tooru’s back, fingers twisting in the fabric of Tooru’s shirt.  The kiss is insistent, hungry—Tooru is unable to restrain a moan when Hajime bites down on Tooru’s lower lip, soothing the sting with a long lick.  “Tooru,” Hajime groans.  It’s a wondrous noise.  Tooru is hard against Hajime’s thigh in barely a moment.

But it’s this that drags Tooru from the haziness of slick tongues and wandering hands.  He raises his arms to tug Hajime’s fingers out his hair (and Tooru can barely remember how they’d gotten there, consumed as he was in the heady demands of this reunion).  

“Hajime,” Tooru says, breathless, “we can’t, not here—”

Hajime pulls back with a dark growl.  Tooru quivers at the sound of it, an echo of his own mad desire.  They take greedy breaths, staring at each other’s flushed skin and swollen lips.  Coming to their senses, they listen carefully in the silence for a stray intake of breath or a scuffle of footsteps: anything to suggest the presence of an interloper.  But, by the grace of God, they are alone.

“Tonight,” Tooru rasps.  “I can’t bear it anymore, Hajime.”

“The usual place?” Hajime says.  His voice is so steady that Tooru is half-convinced they hadn’t just been kissing like parched men at last allowed drink.

“God, yes,” Tooru says.  “The usual place.”

Hajime nods slowly.  Tooru inhales sharply when he feels the rough caress of Hajime’s palm over the place that burns for Hajime the most.

“I’ll see you then.”

Abruptly, the knight breaks away and strides down the corridor with measured footfalls. Tooru watches as Hajime goes, listening for a while to the dull clang of sword play outside before gathering his breath and walking the opposite way, heart shaking in his chest.


End file.
